mel

he makes the argument that waiting is the very least you can do. ‘for me,’ he says, his thumb brushing the curve of your cheekbone, leaning down to press warm, knowing kisses to your mouth. ‘just want you to try for me.’

so you agree, hesitant at first but also excited. like the prospect of denying yourself orgasm is a shiny new toy that’s been dropped in your lap, ready to be turned over and inspected for possibility, for layer and depth. you touch yourself when he’s not around and you don’t let yourself come. let yourself teeter on the edge and text him sweet, vague nothings, like ‘miss you’ and ‘thinking of you’ and ‘can’t wait to see you later.’ and he responds in kind, when he can, when he’s not elbow deep in traumas.

over time, the messages grow bolder, less vague. messages he has to hide his screen to read lest his ears and the back of his neck flush bright red. and that makes it even better, you think, of having a dirty little secret. of being one too. jack abbot’s needy, desperate girlfriend who can’t go a single day without him giving her an orgasm. who has to bother him at work like a child would their guardian. ‘can i go to the park? can i watch a movie? can i come in our bed thinking of you?’

‘so empty, it hurts,’ you text him with one hand down your pants, and, ‘i almost came, but i didn’t! didn’t want to disappoint you. but now my pillow’s all wet :(’ and once, memorably, because he calls you almost directly after, ‘i need you to take care of me, daddy, where are you?’

a cute, flirty little game that makes the distance apart more bearable. connects you through space and time and a digital footprint that should most definitely be wiped clean before you die. it evolves into slow, delicious torture over the course of the relationship. as you find it exceptionally more and more difficult not to come on the days you’re ramped up, near impossible during ovulation.

days like today when you’re at home, naked in your bed, the past who knows how many hours spent with your hand between your thighs, rubbing mindless circles around your clit and thinking of jack. of his voice and his hands and the thick circumference of his waist you absolutely adore, that you love to wrap your legs around when he’s deep inside of you, holding onto him with all four limbs like a koala.

you still stop when you get too close, breathing fast and hard and squeezing your thighs together at the achy, empty feeling but you hate it, think you might actually vibrate out of your skin soon if he doesn’t come home and take care of you. in an act of desperation, you send him a voice note that he sees twenty minutes later, ducks into the bathroom to listen to, phone pressed to his ear.

it’s almost two minutes long. begins with the slick, wet sounds of your pussy he knows so well, realizes with a hot pulse of desire in his stomach that you’re fingering yourself and then your voice starts up, pleading. you sound wrecked, completely out of it, like your entire world has been shrunk down to your cunt and what you can fit inside of it.

‘i’m sorry—i’m sorry, i just need it so bad. need something inside me, 'cause you’re not here to—,’ you cut yourself off on a moan and then the slick sounds get faster, more urgent. ‘fill me up. i’m so empty, all of the time ‘n i need it, daddy, need your big cock inside me, stretching me open, oh—,’ a squeak then loud, audible breathing, the slick sounds of your pussy ending, ‘almost came. fuck, fuck, i almost came.’ there’s muffled rustling, the bed maybe, the phone, and then your voice again, sweeter, closer to the microphone, ‘i need you to come home and fuck me. i’m so wet, you have no idea. i'm getting the sheets all dirty. i would feel so good inside when you—,’ more shifting, a high, soft moan. ‘stuff me full. you wouldn’t even have to ask for permission. you could just bend me over and take what you want. nng—you could fuck me on the floor.’ you were touching yourself again. he could hear it, his own fingers white knuckling his phone. ‘in the hallway, and i w-would beg for it. beg for you to come inside me, so, so deep, daddy and—,’ you let out a delirious giggle as the slick sounds grow louder, ‘it would probably stick 'cause i’m—fuck—'cause i’m ovulating.’

jack is slowly but surely banging his forehead against the solid door to the bathroom.

‘don’t you want that? to become a real daddy? you could hold my legs open and make me take all of it. your cum, pump a load inside of me.’ he hears a squelch and then a moan. ‘you could stay like that until i’m pregnant. please, please, please, i’m made for it, made for you. jack—oh my god—,’ you make a guttural, unintelligible noise that abruptly cuts off as the message ends.

what the fuck?

jack pulls his phone away from his ear, breathing hard, and texts you. ‘did you come?’

you respond back almost immediately. ‘no >:( i stopped’

then he groans as an image comes through. fingers of your right hand spread apart, shiny, wet string connecting them. evidence of what they’ve been doing. and then another of your face, smushed cheek into the bed and beaded tears on your eyelashes.

fuck. jack rubs the aching skin on his forehead and hopes there isn’t a red mark.

‘good,’ he texts, ‘that’s really good, sweetheart. i’m proud of you.’

he receives back a long row of frowny faces that make him huff a laugh and then words. ‘i’m tired of being good. it hurts.’

‘i know, baby,’ he says, ‘but you’ll do it for me?’

a brief pause as three dots appear then disappear and then appear again.

‘yes, daddy, i’ll do it for you.’

he squeezes his dick as it pulses between his legs.

‘good girl. i love you.’

‘i love you too. home soon?’

‘home so soon, baby. just be a little more patient for me.’